Chapter 2
Without the lofty counsel of the gods, It surely could not be, that now, When we were never sunk so low, In desperate oblivion of the Past, Each moment, comes a cry renewed, From our great sires, to shake our souls, at last! Heaven still some pity shows for Italy; Some god hath still our happiness at heart: Since this, or else no other, is the hour, Italian virtue to redeem, And its old lustre once more to impart, These pleading voices from the grave we hear; Forgotten heroes rise from earth again, To see, my country, if at this late day, Thou still art pleased the coward’s part to play.
And do ye cherish still, Illustrious shades, some hope of us? Have we not perished utterly? To you, perhaps, it is allowed, to read The book of destiny. _I_ am dismayed, And have no refuge from my grief; For dark to me the future is, and all That I discern is such, as makes hope seem A fable and a dream. To your old homes A wretched crew succeed; to noble act or word, They pay no heed; for your eternal fame They know no envy, feel no blush of shame. A filthy mob your monuments defile: To ages yet unborn, We have become a by-word and a scorn.
Thou noble spirit, if no others care For our great Fathers’ fame, oh, care thou still, Thou, to whom Fate hath so benignant been, That those old days appear again, When, roused from dire oblivion’s tomb, Came forth, with all the treasures of their lore, Those ancient bards, divine, with whom Great Nature spake, but still behind her veil, And with her mysteries graced The holidays of Athens and of Rome. O times, now buried in eternal sleep! Our country’s ruin was not then complete; We then a life of wretched sloth disdained; Still from our native soil were borne afar, Some sparks of genius by the passing air.
Thy holy ashes still were warm, Whom hostile fortune ne’er unmanned; Unto whose anger and whose grief, Hell was more grateful than thy native land. Ah, what, but hell, has Italy become? And thy sweet cords Still trembled at the touch of thy right hand, Unhappy bard of love. Alas, Italian song is still the child Of sorrow born. And yet, less hard to bear, Consuming grief than dull vacuity! O blessed thou, whose life was one lament! Disgust and nothingness are still our doom, And by our cradle sit, and on our tomb.
But thy life, then, was with the stars and sea, Liguria’s hardy son, When thou, beyond the columns and the shores, Where oft, at set of sun, The waves are heard to hiss, As he into their depths has plunged, Committed to the boundless deep, Didst find again the sun’s declining ray, The new-born day didst find, When it from us had passed away; Defying Nature’s every obstacle, A land unknown didst win, the glorious spoils Of all thy perils, all thy toils. And yet, when known, the world seems smaller still; And earth and ocean, and the heavenly sphere More vast unto the child, than to the sage appear.
Where now are all the charming dreams Of the mysterious retreats Of dwellers unto us unknown, Or where, by day, the stars to rest have gone, Or of the couch remote of Eos bright, Or of the sun’s mysterious sleep at night? They, in an instant, vanished all; A little chart portrays this earthly ball. Lo, all things are alike; discovery But proves the way for dull vacuity. Farewell to thee, O Fancy, dear, If plain, unvarnished truth appear! Thought more and more is still estranged from thee; Thy power so mighty once, will soon be gone, And our poor, wounded hearts be left forlorn.
But thou for these sweet dreams wast born, And the _old_ sun upon thee shone, Delightful singer of the arms, and loves, That in an age far happier than our own, Men’s lives with pleasing errors filled. New hope of Italy! O towers, O caves, O ladies, cavaliers, O gardens, palaces! Amenites, At thought of which, the mind Is lost in thousand splendid reveries! Ye lovely fables, and ye thoughts grotesque, Now banished! And what to us remains? Now that the bloom from all things is removed? Alas, the sole, the certain thought, That all except our wretchedness, is nought.
Torquato, O Torquato, heaven to us The rich gift of thy genius gave, to thee Nought else but misery. Ill-starred Torquato, whom thy song, So sweet, could not console, Nor melt the ice, to which The genial current of thy soul Was turned, by private envy, princely hate; And then, by Love abandoned, life’s last dream! To thee, nought real seemed but nothingness, The world a dreary wilderness. Too late the honors came, so long deferred; And yet, to die was unto thee a gain. Who knows the evils of our mortal state, Demands but death, no garland asks, of Fate.
Return, return to us, Rise from thy silent, dreary tomb, And feast thine eyes on our distress, O thou, whose life was crowned with wretchedness! Far worse than what appeared to thee so sad And infamous, have all our lives become. Dear friend, who now would pity thee, When none save for himself hath thought or care? Who would not thy keen anguish folly call, When all things great and rare the name of folly bear? When envy, no, but worse than envy, far, Indifference pervades our rulers all? Ah, who would now, when we all think Of song so little, and so much of gain, A laurel for thy brow prepare again?
Ah, since thy day, there has appeared but one, Who has the fame of Italy redeemed: Too good for his vile age, he stands alone; One of the fierce Allobroges, Whose manly virtue was derived Direct from heavenly powers, Not from this dry, unfruitful earth of ours; Whence he alone, unarmed,— O matchless courage!—from the stage, Did war upon the ruthless tyrants wage; The only war, the only weapon left, Against the crimes and follies of the age. First, and alone, he took the field: None followed him; all else were cowards tame, Lost to all sense of honor, or of shame.
Devoured by anger and by grief, His spotless life he passed, Till from worse scenes released by death, at last. O my Victorio, this was not for thee The fitting age, or land. Great souls congenial times and climes demand. In mere repose we live content, And vulgar mediocrity; The wise man sinks, the mob ascends, Till all at last in one dread level ends. Go on, thou great discoverer! Revive the dead, since all the living sleep! Dead tongues of ancient heroes arm anew; Till this vile age a new life strive to win By noble deeds, or perish in its sin!
TO HIS SISTER PAOLINA,
ON HER APPROACHING MARRIAGE.
Since now thou art about to leave Thy father’s quiet house, And all the phantoms and illusions dear, That heaven-born fancies round it weave, And to this lonely region lend their charm, Unto the dust and noise of life condemned, By destiny, soon wilt thou learn to see Our wretchedness and infamy, My sister dear, who, in these mournful times, Alas, wilt more unhappy souls bestow On our unhappy Italy! With strong examples strengthen thou their minds; For cruel fate propitious gales Hath e’er to virtue’s course denied, Nor in weak souls can purity reside.
Thy sons must either poor, or cowards be. Prefer them poor. It is the custom still. Desert and fortune never yet were friends; The strife between them never ends. Unhappy they, who in these evil days Are born when all things totter to their fall! But that we must to heaven leave. Be this, above all things, thy care, Thy children still to rear, As those who court not Fortune’s smiles, Nor playthings are of idle hope, or fear: And so the future age will call them blessed; For, in this slothful and deceitful world, The living virtue ever we despise, The dead we load with eulogies.
Women, to you our country looks, For the redemption of her fame: Ah, not unto our injury and shame, On the soft lustre of your eyes A power far mightier was conferred Than that of fire or sword! The wise and strong, in thought and act, are by Your judgment led; nay all who live Beneath the sun, to you still bend the knee. On you I call, then; answer me! Have _you_ youth’s holy aspirations quenched? And are our natures broken, crushed by _you_? These sluggish minds, these low desires, These nerveless arms, these feeble knees. Say, say, are you to blame for these?
Love is the spur to noble deeds, To him its worth who knows; And beauty still to lofty love inspires. Love never in his spirit glows, Whose heart exults not in his breast, When angry winds in fight descend, And heaven gathers all its clouds, And mountain crests the lightnings rend. O wives, O maidens, he Who shrinks from danger, turns his back upon His country in her need, and only seeks His base desires and appetites to feed, Excites your hatred and your scorn; If ye for men, and not for milk-sops, feel The glow of love o’er your soft bosoms steal.
The mothers of unwarlike sons O may ye ne’er be called! Your children still inure For virtue’s sake all trials to endure; To scorn the vices of this wretched age; To cherish loyal thoughts, and high desires; And learn how much they owe unto their sires. The sons of Sparta thus became, Amid the memories of heroes old, Deserving of the Grecian name; While the young spouse the trusty sword Upon the loved one’s side would gird, And, afterwards, with her black locks, The bloodless, naked corpse concealed, When homeward borne upon the faithful shield.
Virginia, thy soft cheek In Beauty’s finest mould was framed; But thy disdain Rome’s haughty lord inflamed. How lovely wast thou, in thy youth’s sweet prime, When the rough dagger of thy sire Thy snowy breast did smite, And thou, a willing victim, didst descend Into realms of night! “May old age wither and consume my frame, O father,”—thus she said; “And may they now for me the tomb prepare, E’er I the impious bed Of that foul tyrant share: And if my blood new life and liberty May give to Rome, by thy hand let me die!”
Ah, in those better days When more propitious shone the sun than now, Thy tomb, dear child, was not left comfortless, But honored with the tears of all. Behold, around thy lovely corpse, the sons Of Romulus with holy wrath inflamed; Behold the tyrants locks with dust besmeared; In sluggish breasts once more The sacred name of Liberty revered; Behold o’er all the subjugated earth, The troops of Latium march triumphant forth, From torrid desert to the gloomy pole. And thus eternal Rome, That had so long in sloth oblivious lain, A daughter’s sacrifice revives again.
TO A VICTOR IN THE GAME OF PALLONE.
The face of glory and her pleasant voice, O fortunate youth, now recognize, And how much nobler than effeminate sloth Are manhood’s tested energies. Take heed, O generous champion, take heed, If thou thy name by worthy thought or deed, From Time’s all-sweeping current couldst redeem; Take heed, and lift thy heart to high desires! The amphitheatre’s applause, the public voice, Now summon thee to deeds illustrious; Exulting in thy lusty youth. In thee, to-day, thy country dear Beholds her heroes old again appear.
_His_ hand was ne’er with blood barbaric stained, At Marathon, Who on the plain of Elis could behold The naked athletes, and the wrestlers bold, And feel no glow of emulous zeal within, The laurel wreath of victory to win. And he, who in Alphēus stream did wash The dusty manes and foaming flanks Of his victorious mares, _he_ best could lead The Grecian banners and the Grecian swords Against the flying, panic-stricken ranks Of Medes, who, dying, Asia’s shore And great Euphrates will behold no more.
And will you call that vain, which seeks The latent sparks of virtue to evolve, Or animate anew to high resolve, The drooping fervor of our weary souls? What but a game have mortal works e’er been, Since Phoebus first his weary wheels did urge? And is not truth, no less than falsehood, vain? And yet, with pleasing phantoms, fleeting shows, Nature herself to our relief has come; And custom, aiding nature, still must strive These strong illusions to revive; Or else all thirst for noble deeds is gone, Is lost in sloth, and blind oblivion.
The time may come, perchance, when midst The ruins of Italian palaces, Will herds of cattle graze, And all the seven hills the plough will feel; Not many years will have elapsed, perchance, E’er all the towns of Italy Will the abode of foxes be, And dark groves murmur ’mid the lofty walls; Unless the Fates from our perverted minds Remove this sad oblivion of the Past; And heaven by grateful memories appeased, Relenting, in the hour of our despair, The abject nations, ripe for slaughter, spare.
But thou, O worthy youth, wouldst grieve, Thy wretched country to survive. Thou once through her mightst have acquired renown, When on her brow she wore the glittering crown, Now lost! Our fault, and Fate’s! That time is o’er; Ah, such a mother who could honor, more? But for thyself, O lift thy thoughts on high! What is our life? A thing to be despised: Least wretched, when with perils so beset, It must, perforce, its wretched self forget, Nor heed the flight of slow-paced, worthless hours; Or, when, to Lethe’s dismal shore impelled, It hath once more the light of day beheld.
THE YOUNGER BRUTUS.
When in the Thracian dust uprooted lay, In ruin vast, the strength of Italy, And Fate had doomed Hesperia’s valleys green, And Tiber’s shores, The trampling of barbarian steeds to feel, And from the leafless groves, On which the Northern Bear looks down, Had called the Gothic hordes, That Rome’s proud walls might fall before their swords; Exhausted, wet with brothers’ blood, Alone sat Brutus, in the dismal night; Resolved on death, the gods implacable Of heaven and hell he chides, And smites the listless, drowsy air With his fierce cries of anger and despair.
“O foolish virtue, empty mists, The realms of shadows, are thy schools, And at thy heels repentance follows fast. To you, ye marble gods (If ye in Phlegethon reside, or dwell Above the clouds), a mockery and scorn Is the unhappy race, Of whom you temples ask, And fraudulent the law that you impose. Say, then, does earthly piety provoke The anger of the gods? O Jove, dost thou protect the impious? And when the storm-cloud rushes through the air, And thou thy thunderbolts dost aim, Against the _just_ dost thou impel the sacred flame? Unconquered Fate and stern necessity Oppress the feeble slaves of Death: Unable to avert their injuries, The common herd endure them patiently. But is the ill less hard to bear, Because it has no remedy? Does he who knows no hope no sorrow feel? The hero wages war with thee, Eternal deadly war, ungracious Fate, And knows not how to yield; and thy right hand, Imperious, proudly shaking off, E’en when it weighs upon him most, Though conquered, is triumphant still, When his sharp sword inflicts the fatal blow; And seeks with haughty smile the shades below.
“Who storms the gates of Tartarus, Offends the gods. Such valor does not suit, forsooth, Their soft, eternal bosoms; no? Or are our toils and miseries, And all the anguish of our hearts, A pleasant sport, their leisure to beguile? Yet no such life of crime and wretchedness, But pure and free as her own woods and fields, Nature to us prescribed; a queen And goddess once. Since impious custom, now, Her happy realm hath scattered to the winds, And other laws on this poor life imposed, Will Nature of fool-hardiness accuse The manly souls, who such a life refuse?
“Of crime, and their own sufferings ignorant, Serene old age the beasts conducts Unto the death they ne’er foresee. But if, by misery impelled, they sought To dash their heads against the rugged tree, Or, plunging headlong from the lofty rock, Their limbs to scatter to the winds. No law mysterious, misconception dark, Would the sad wish refuse to grant. Of all that breathe the breath of life, You, only, children of Prometheus, feel That life a burden hard to bear; Yet, would you seek the silent shores of death, If sluggish fate the boon delay, To you, alone, stern Jove forbids the way.
“And thou, white moon, art rising from the sea, That with our blood is stained; The troubled night dost thou survey, And field, so fatal unto Italy. On brothers’ breasts the conqueror treads; The hills with fear are thrilled; From her proud heights Rome totters to her fall. And smilest thou upon the dismal scene? Lavinia’s children from their birth, And all their prosperous years, And well-earned laurels, hast thou seen; And thou _wilt_ smile, with ray unchanged, Upon the Alps, when, bowed with grief and shame, The haughty city, desolate and lone, Beneath the tread of Gothic hordes shall groan.
“Behold, amid the naked rocks, Or on the verdant bough, the beast and bird, Whose breasts are ne’er by thought or memory stirred, Of the vast ruin take no heed, Or of the altered fortunes of the world; And when the humble herdsman’s cot Is tinted with the earliest rays of dawn, The one will wake the valleys with his song, The other, o’er the cliffs, the frightened throng Of smaller beasts before him drive. O foolish race! Most wretched we, of all! Nor are these blood-stained fields, These caverns, that our groans have heard, Regardful of our misery; Nor shines one star less brightly in the sky. Not the deaf kings of heaven or hell, Or the unworthy earth, Or night, do I in death invoke, Or thee, last gleam the dying hour that cheers, The voice of coming ages. I no tomb Desire, to be with sobs disturbed, or with The words and gifts of wretched fools adorned. The times grow worse and worse; And who, unto a vile posterity, The honor of great souls would trust, Or fit atonement for their wrongs? Then let the birds of prey around me wheel: And let my wretched corpse The lightning blast, the wild beast tear; And let my name and memory melt in air!”
TO THE SPRING.
OR OF THE FABLES OF THE ANCIENTS.
Now that the sun the faded charms Of heaven again restores, And gentle zephyr the sick air revives, And the dark shadows of the clouds Are put to flight, And birds their naked breasts confide Unto the wind, and the soft light, With new desire of love, and with new hope, The conscious beasts, in the deep woods, Amid the melting frosts, inspires; May not to you, poor human souls, Weary, and overborne with grief, The happy age return, which misery, And truth’s dark torch, before its time, consumed? Have not the golden rays Of Phoebus vanished from your gaze Forever? Say, O gentle Spring, Canst thou this icy heart inspire, and melt, That in the bloom of youth, the frost of age hath felt?
O holy Nature, art thou still alive? Alive? And does the unaccustomed ear Of thy maternal voice the accents hear? Of white nymphs once, the streams were the abode. And in the clear founts mirrored were their forms. Mysterious dances of immortal feet The mountain tops and lofty forests shook,— To-day the lonely mansions of the winds;— And when the shepherd-boy the noontide shade Would seek, or bring his thirsty lambs Unto the flowery margin of the stream, Along the banks the clear song would he hear, And pipe of rustic Fauns; Would see the waters move, And stand amazed, when, hidden from the view, The quiver-bearing goddess would descend Into the genial waves, And from her snow-white arms efface The dust and blood of the exciting chase.
The flowers, the herbs _once_ lived, The groves with life were filled: Soft airs, and clouds, and every shining light Were with the human race in sympathy, When thee, fair star of Venus, o’er The hills and dales, The traveller, in the lonely night, Pursuing with his earnest gaze, The sweet companion of his path, The loving friend of mortals deemed: When he, who, fleeing from the impious strife Of cities filled with mutiny and shame, In depths of woods remote, The rough trees clasping to his breast, The vital flame seemed in their veins to feel, The breathing leaves of Daphne, or of Phyllis sad; And seemed the sisters’ tears to see, still shed For him who, smitten by the lightning’s blast, Into the swift Eridanus was cast.
Nor were ye deaf, ye rigid rocks, To human sorrow’s plaintive tones, While in your dark recesses Echo dwelt, No idle plaything of the winds, But spirit sad of hapless nymph, Whom unrequited love, and cruel fate, Of her soft limbs deprived. She o’er the grots, The naked rocks, and mansions desolate, Unto the depths of all-embracing air, Our sorrows, not to her unknown, Our broken, loud laments conveyed. And _thou_, if fame belie thee not, Didst sound the depths of human woe, Sweet bird, that comest to the leafy grove, The new-born Spring to greet, And when the fields are hushed in sleep, To chant into the dark and silent air, The ancient wrongs, and cruel treachery, That stirred the pity of the gods, to see. But, no, thy race is not akin to ours; No sorrow framed thy melodies; Thy voice of crime unconscious, pleases less, Along the dusky valley heard. Ah, since the mansions of Olympus all Are desolate, and without guide, the bolt, That, wandering o’er the cloud-capped mountain-tops, In horror cold dissolves alike The guilty and the innocent; Since this, our earthly home, A stranger to her children has become, And brings them up, to misery; Lend thou an ear, dear Nature, to the woes And wretched fate of mortals, and revive The ancient spark within my breast; If thou, indeed, dost live, if aught there is, In heaven, or on the sun-lit earth, Or in the bosom of the sea, That pities? No; but _sees_ our misery.
HYMN TO THE PATRIARCHS.
OR OF THE BEGINNINGS OF THE HUMAN RACE.
Illustrious fathers of the human race, Of you, the song of your afflicted sons Will chant the praise; of you, more dear, by far, Unto the Great Disposer of the stars, Who were not born to wretchedness, like ours. Immedicable woes, a life of tears, The silent tomb, eternal night, to find More sweet, by far, than the ethereal light, These things were not by heaven’s gracious law Imposed on you. If ancient legends speak Of sins of yours, that brought calamity Upon the human race, and fell disease, Alas, the sins more terrible, by far, Committed by your children, and their souls More restless, and with mad ambition fixed, Against them roused the wrath of angry gods, The hand of all-sustaining Nature armed, By them so long neglected and despised. Then life became a burden and a curse, And every new-born babe a thing abhorred, And hell and chaos reigned upon the earth.